Hunters at 221B
by hunters-of-221B-from-Gallifrey
Summary: It is a boring day at 221B, until Sherlock spots two supposedly dead American serial killers. The day just went from a total bore to something Sherlock can work with. However, what is the fictional character Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson doing in reality? Looks like a problem for a certain time travelling alien. FULL SUPERWHOLOCK. Rated T for light swearing
1. Chapter 1

**I love "Sherlock", "Doctor Who", and "Supernatural"...so why not make a Superwholock!? I can only put two categories, so it will be Sherlock and Supernatural. This is Post-Reichenbach, season eight, before Castiel came back SPN, series two of Doctor Who because I love Rose and Ten.**

**Oh, and it won't be a SuperWHOlock until later chapters.**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own anything. If I did, Misha Collins would be mine.**

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"Why is life boring, John? Why can't there be excitement? Nothing over a three has come in all week! I feel like I need a five at least!" Sherlock complained to a grumbly blogger who was furiously typing away at his computer.

"Sherlock, you cannot expect that Lestrade would come to you with the important ones for awhile. He still is weary of you after, well, you know. You died." John responded, sighing. He got up and closed his laptop, trying to leave a pacing Sherlock Holmes in the living room. He was about to walk away when he looked down onto the street, mostly by accident.

There were two men on the sidewalk, both tall, but one unbelievable tall. Especially for the short Doctor Watson. They seemed to be arguing about something, and he noticed the bulge of a gun in their leather jackets. Something he has come to know well after Afghanistan and working with Sherlock.

"Sherlock! There are two men outside, and I think they have guns!" John called out to the detective, who came to the window with a hopeful smile.

"Oh, thank you!" He shouted to no one. "Finally! Something interesting! Do you know who those men are? They are serial killers! They should be dead! I was looking at the FBI's most wanted list and they were numbers two and three!" Sherlock exclaimed like and excited school girl. "We need to go down there!" He grabbed his scarf as he marched down the stairs, flinging the door open, and walking across the street. John grunted as he struggled to keep up with the long legged man.

"-because planes crash! I can't believe you got me to come here for a stupid- Can I help you?" The shorter of the two asked as Sherlock barreled into them. He looked annoyed and slightly green. The taller one furrowed his brow at Sherlock and John and before he could speak, Sherlock opened his mouth.

"You two are the FBI's most wanted list." He said, almost nonchalantly. "Which means you are serial killers and I love a good serial killer, and there are two of you as well! How on Earth did you fake your deaths?" John knew that Sherlock already knew everything about these boys, so he just decided to watch what unfolded. But he had brought his gun because he did not trust the men.

"Hey, we get that a lot, but we aren't them. They died. I am...George and this is my brother Phillip. We are on vacation and we really hoped no one would be on us like in America." The shaggy haired one said. John looked at Sherlock, scoffed, and let Sherlock speak.

"Stop lying, will you? You obviously are not here for fun, rather business, and you are brothers, judging by your exchanges and similar looks, however you seem to lie often, almost as much as me. The one you called Phillip just lost someone, a good friend, maybe lover. Male. You grieve with alcohol and you are hiding something that you do not want to tell your brother. You, however, feel like he is hiding something, but he won't open up to you due to your evasive glances and shifting hands. Your clothes suggest that you have a very small wardrobe due to lack of funds, obviously because the wear of your clothes, you engage in some sort of extremely physical activity. Your guns and comfort with them suggests perhaps law enforcement or military background. Whatever caused you to kill still drives you now, am I right? In fact, I am almost certain you are here to kill again." Sherlock finished with a smug look and eliciting a gasp from John, as usual.

The look lasted for only a millisecond, because the shorter blonde one-who was still as tall as Sherlock and easily a foot taller than John-connected his fist to the detective's sharp cheekbones in a flurry of punches. The shaggy moose-John had decided on the nickname-took out a flask and drenched the pair with the contents. John sputtered water from his mouth, but not flinching. These men sure are crazy!

"How the hell do you know about us you BASTARD?" The blonde one yelled after pulling a bloodied Sherlock into a nearby alley. He took a knife from his belt, one that John had not noticed. John took his gun from his holster and pointed it at the man's skull.

"Let him go. He is just being an arse. No reason to try to kill him like you do to so many. Don't make me call the police. I have the Detective Inspector on speed dial. He wouldn't appreciate him dying again." John reasoned. "And besides, I have my gun, I can shoot you both before any harm can come to my friend." John shrugged.

"Listen, I think we need to calm down and listen to each other before shooting, don't you, DEAN?" The moose asked. Dean grimaced and let Sherlock go. He fell to the ground and John put his gun away as he ran to help the detective from the ground. Sherlock stood before John could help him, straightening his scarf and black coat.

"So, Dean? I believe we got off on the wrong foot. Because your brother did something that peaked my interest-a very hard thing to do-. That flask, was not normal water I assume?" Sherlock asked, somewhat disgruntled that he did not recognize it.

"Well, before I tell you, who are you freaks?" Dean growled. His brother sighed and stuck his hand out.

"I am Sam Winchester, this is my brother Dean. And don't be offended by my brother, he is a jerk." Sam said, getting a murmmered "Bitch" from Dean. "Are you guys some sort of detectives?"

"Yeah, no shit Sherlock!" Dean said to his brother, to the surprise of John and even Sherlock.

"How did you know my name?" Sherlock asked, narrowing his stormy eyes at the brothers. They stared at the genius with blank looks. "I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my blogger, Doctor John Watson."


	2. Chapter 2

"WHAT?" The brothers said at once, staring at the consulting detective and his blogger. "How can you be real!?" Dean shouted.

"What do you mean? Of course we are real, we are here, aren't we? Now, you look familiar too." John said, squinting up at the towering men. Sam shook his head and walked behind they to a black car parked in the alley. He reached into the trunk and pulled out a book.

"Here. I don't know how this is possible, but you are Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, and you are Doctor John Watson, his assistant. You live in Victorian London, wear a deer-stalker and smoke pipes. Your arch enemy is Professor Moriarty and your housekeeper is Mrs. Hudson" Sam said, holding out the book. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and took the book. Dean rolled his eyes at his brother and murmured 'Nerd'

"I hate that hat. And I do not smoke CIGARETTES any more, in fact, I am wearing patches now. And how did you know about Mrs. Hudson, she is only our landlady? She insists upon that fact. And only Moriarty would call himself my archenemy! DO YOU WORK FOR HIM?" Sherlock yelled, getting uncomfortably close to Sam, close to pinning him against the wall. This caused John to draw his gun.

"Woh. Dude, open the book. See what we are talking about." Dean said, pointing at the hardback in Sherlock's hands. The title read _A Study in Scarlet._

"No, I wrote 'A Study In Pink'. What is this? Some sort of fan made thing?" John asked, looking at the men. Sherlock took the book and flipped through the first chapter or so before closing it and throwing it in shock.

"What is this? John, that book...it is from your perspective. But, how? It is almost exactly like our experience with that serial suicide case, but slightly different in few aspects. HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE?" Sherlock roared at Sam and Dean, who looked just as confused as the army doctor. Sherlock hated not knowing things, especially potentially interesting things such as this.

"Listen, Mr. Holmes, I have no clue. We came here for a case, and we honestly don't know what is going on. And if you are as good as that fricking book says, than you should know that we aren't lying. So get away from my brother and back off." Dean growled, his hand skirting his waist where he kept his pistol. Sherlock took a second to take in the older brother's face, and, deciding he was telling the truth, backed up to join John.

"I honestly prefer Sherlock. 'Mr. Holmes' makes me sound like my father, or worse, Mycroft. I don't believe I could handle being compared to my prick of brother and not knowing something in the same hour. Now, tell me everything that happened that caused you to come here. Every detail is important, however, do leave out the boring bits, like sleeping or eating like the normal people you are." Sherlock asked, pursing his lips and leaning forward in anticipation slightly without really realizing it.

Sam and Dean proceeded to tell them that their Uncle-most likely a father figure to these boys judging by their obvious trust in him Sherlock decided-had given them a case. Sherlock pressed for a description of what it involved, but only received an assurance that it had to do with strange murders. Sam said that after a long argument with Dean about flying, which he hated, they had boarded a plane and came to London.

"But...there was this one thing I noticed." Dean added after Sam had finished. John raised an eyebrow, mirroring the moose's expression at his brother. "While Sasquatch was asleep on the plane. I couldn't because if I was going to be on a plane, there would be no way I was going to let my guard down and sleep." Sherlock nodded approvingly of the 'no sleep' plan. "But, we were somewhere in the third hour and there was some turbulence. Like, crazy turbulence. And when I asked the flight attendant about it, she looked at me like I was crazy. She said 'I don't know what you are talking about sir.' And just shook her head when I insisted I felt it. I know it was there and I was the only one who noticed." Dean finished, earning a disbelieving stare from Sam.

"Are you sure you weren't just drunk or imagining shit again?" Sam asked his brother, and received an angry huff of breath from Dean who looked angrily at the other two men. Sherlock simply shook his head and looked at John.

"This is very bad John. I do not know what is going on. And that is a sign that there is something very wrong." Sherlock said before turning on his heel very quickly and walked toward the street, where he flagged down a taxi. Sam and Dean followed John as he ran after Sherlock and the trio followed the consulting detective into the cab.

Even Sherlock, the man who notices everything, was too involved in his thoughts to notice the strange blue box in the alley that certainly was not there before.


End file.
